“Oh, no, our parents are in Aspen skiing themselves into oblivion. We usually go along, but with work this year, I couldn’t get away,” Reece said. Cameron nodded, though Laila wondered if skipping out on the family trip had been little more than an excuse to come be by his beloved for the holiday.
“I’m going to leave you kids and see where my husband has gone off to,” Petra said. She beamed at Liberty and Cameron; there was no wondering what she thought of the match.
“God, Lib, your mom looks amazing,” Reece said when Petra was out of earshot. “Is she bathing in the blood of virgins or what?”
“If they offered it at J Sisters, she might.”
“Beauty is only fleeting for some,” Cameron said, giving Liberty a look that made it clear he was not only talking about Petra. “So, Tom,” he said, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder in a way that made Tom light up, “tell us about the new book. Are you going on tour this time?”
And off Tom went into a spiel Laila had heard a hundred times already. How quickly his work—something everyone seemed so impressed with—had come to bore her. There was, she had been distressed to discover, nothing all too glamorous about being a writer. It was not different from any other job, except she knew now from all the time she spent at his apartment that Tom often wore sweatpants while he did it, which Laila felt a man should never do, at least not if there was any danger a woman might see.
Eventually everyone took their seats around a long mahogany dining table. Laila felt her mantra of the night repeating itself in her head: I am a Lawrence and I belong here. The group was an eclectic mix: musicians, fellow former models, and several designers, one of whom was seated next to Reece. Even sitting, the man was half her size but had a bright, warm smile. He was handsome and compact with dark features and an accent Laila could not quite place: Spanish, maybe? At any rate, Reece seemed enthralled with him and was asking him dozens of questions about his work, which he seemed happy to answer. Her uncle sat at the far end of the table, taciturn as ever. Were these all Petra’s friends? Laila surmised that he was one of those men who mostly let his wife run his social life on his behalf. Laila was between Tom and Leo, the latter showing off for the former by talking about all the books he’d read in the last year. Leo played the part of being a writer himself when it suited him, and Tom, who hated this behavior, was acting like Leo was a colleague. Nora attempted to sit on the other side of her brother, but her mother shooed her into a different seat, exclaiming, “Nora, you cannot sit on the corner!” She’d rolled her eyes and smiled at her brother, saying, “Lest I remain unmarried forever!” Leo laughed and explained to Laila and Tom that this was a Russian superstition. The food was exquisite. In lieu of turkey—an impractical measure considering the thirty-odd guests, they were served Cornish game hens with truffled mashed potatoes and the most delicately fried brussels sprouts. A half-dozen former models took one glorious bite of each.
After dinner, the party carried on.
“Good thing everyone is spending the night,” Liberty said to Laila, settling into the couch next to her. “Otherwise they’d all float home.”
Laila leaned into her cousin’s shoulder. Reece was still wrapped up in conversation with her dinner companion, who Liberty explained was Francisco Costa, a name Laila was too embarrassed to admit meant nothing to her.
“Are you having fun?” Liberty asked.
“It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it, if you want to know the truth.”
Her cousin laughed, “My mom does go all out. It must be hard, though,” Liberty said, reaching her arm around Laila. “You must miss your family.”
A thousand things went through Laila’s mind. Her family. Her family.
“Of course, we’re your family too,” Liberty added, hurriedly. “What were your parents’ Thanksgivings like? Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, I like talking about them.” It wasn’t true; Laila wasn’t sure why she’d said it. “Imagine the polar opposite of this, throw in a couple of fat midwestern women and a golden retriever making laps around the dinner table, and you’re just about there.”
Liberty smiled. “I always kind of fantasized about having holidays like that.”
“You must be kidding.”
“No! It sounds like a John Hughes movie. You know, we’ve never had a holiday meal that’s been just family?” Was it true, Laila wondered, that we were all doomed to long for what we didn’t have: that those with everything could wish as ardently for the simplicity of having less as the reverse?
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“All this food and a bunch of aging models to push it around their plates.” Liberty sighed. It was interesting to Laila how Liberty seemed to not think of herself as a model, yet she’d been one and still resembled one. In New York, it seemed that “model” was less a profession and more an ethnicity.
“We never had friends at our family holidays,” Laila said. “Except one year when my dad’s golf buddy was going through a divorce.”
Her father had always had friends in that particularly male way: friends from college who lasted no matter how little he had in common with them. Then there were the golf buddies who more or less encompassed everyone he’d met in his postcollege adult life. Laila’s mother, on the other hand, never really had friends. She only had her sisters whom she spent time with but did not particularly seem to like. Laila had once asked her about it after noticing that her friends’ mothers spent more time with “the girls” drinking wine and going to book club meetings. Her mother had shrugged and smiled. “I’ve never been much of a girl’s girl. Women . . . you have to understand they tear each other down.”
“Tom and Cameron sure hit it off,” Liberty said now as she watched the two men talking spiritedly by the fireplace. Cameron stood with a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other on his hip, as if he were posing for a Brooks Brothers catalog. Tom was talking about something using both of his hands; the more Cameron laughed, the more animated Tom became. Laila thought she could see tiny flecks of spit coming from his mouth. She was repulsed.
“Yeah, I had no idea Cameron was so interested in Tom’s work.”
“You know, I wouldn’t have thought so either. He was a total jock when we were growing up. But he reads all the time now, and we’ve gone to a bunch of events at the 92nd Street Y.”
“I guess people surprise you. Now, if Tom turns out to secretly be a jock, we’ll really be blown away.”
Liberty gave a little laugh. “Oh, poor Tom! Though he certainly has a little spring in his step since he met you.”
“Do you think so?”
Liberty raised an eyebrow at Laila. “I’ve known Tom for years; this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”
Laila was pleased. This was how she wanted it.
“And you’re happy with him?” Liberty asked. She pivoted her body to look her cousin in the eye.
“Of course. Tom is kind. And so smart, so accomplished.”
Liberty’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“It’s early still, right? We’ve only been seeing each other a few months,” Laila said, feeling a wave of her cousin’s incredulousness.
“Of course.”
Laila excused herself to use the bathroom only to find it occupied; after waiting a few minutes, she got impatient and ventured deeper into the house to find another option. One of the caterers directed her to the back of the house; she thanked him and took a glass of wine from his tray. She needed to take the edge off. Liberty had unnerved her. Laila had the sense that she saw not only the version of her that was sitting there—the present, polished Laila—but the shadows of all her previous selves that she carried with her. Laila longed to be close to her cousin, but she also feared it. She was apprehensive of being truly seen. Laila imagined that if they’d known her mother, her cousins wouldn’t have accepted her the way they had.
The hunt for another bathroom had taken her down a long corridor and into a part of the house f
ar from the crowd, which she could only hear faint echoes of. After using the bathroom, she retreated a bit farther into the house. She stopped cold when she heard her uncle’s voice—which boomed despite the fact that he seemed to be straining to keep it down—and halted outside the study door from which it emanated.
“I’m not keeping you from doing anything. For God’s sake, she’s here, isn’t she?”
Laila heard her aunt give an exasperated sigh in return.
“You’ve barely interacted with her,” she said, “the poor child. Do you think she doesn’t notice? It’s bad enough that she grew up with nothing, and of course you won’t even consider making up for that, will you?”
Laila had never heard Petra upset; her accent grew more pronounced with her distress.
“You don’t understand what it’s like for me,” Ben said, “she ruined him, Petra. If it wasn’t for her . . .”
“Betsy ruined him, not Laila,” Petra said firmly. “Would you like to be held responsible for everything your father has done?”
“She looks exactly the same,” Ben said, with something like wonderment in his voice. “You must see it. Every time she walks in, my heart stops. I think it’s her.”
“Oh, Ben, you’re being ridiculous. And you call me superstitious. She’s no older than the twins, and she’s an orphan.”
“You and the kids do whatever you like. But if you think Frederick is going to want to see her, you’re dreaming.”
“Well, he liked her mother just fine. That’s the root of this whole problem, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“For God’s sake, let’s not do this during the holidays. Please. I’m going back to the party.”
So. Laila had not imagined his iciness, then. She slipped off down the hallway before she could be seen, escaping into a large, glass-ceilinged room that felt like the perfect place to collect herself. She imagined that it would be filled with sunlight during the day, but now it opened to a bright, clear, starry sky. She lay back on the cushioned bench that hugged one of the walls: a reading nook that she could imagine Liberty loving. She wondered if this room had been made for her, if it was one of her favorite parts of the house. As she lay there, she absorbed the conversation she’d just overheard. Ben and Petra had known about the affair, even if her cousins still did not. But even if Ben proved intransigent, it must mean something that she had Petra on her side. Time, she just had to give it time.
“Hiding?”
She sat up with a start to find Cameron standing in the doorway smiling at her.
“I was just getting a little overwhelmed,” she said, smoothing her dress. As soon as she spoke, she realized she was tipsy. “This is my first holiday with . . . everyone.” Her heart was still racing after what she’d heard.
He nodded, looking down into his glass and swirling the ice cubes—immaculate squares—thoughtfully.
“Are your family’s holidays like this?” Laila asked. Perhaps this was yet another New York thing she didn’t understand.
“Ours? No. We usually have a few extras, but nothing like this. There’s a who’s who of the nineties back there.”
He was like a movie star; he had an otherworldly sheen to him, something too precious to really exist.
“So, how you doing, kid?” He looked briefly behind him down the hallway—why?—as he came to sit beside her, put a brotherly hand on her shoulder. “Adjusting to New York life?”
Suddenly it was as though that first night they’d met—when lust had seemed to hang heavy in the air between them—had never happened.
She wound her crossed legs tighter and crossed her free arm underneath the hand that held her glass. She shrugged.
“I love it here, but . . .” She felt a sudden urge to confess to Cameron what she’d just overheard, but no. “I don’t fit in,” she said carefully. “You know, everyone is so glamorous and beautiful, and it’s like they all know some . . .” She tried to put her finger on it. “Secret code?”
“Come on,” Cameron said, “you’re beautiful. You know that.”
He said it in a friendly way. But as Laila turned her head toward him, she could smell him: something spicy and musky mixed with the whiskey he was drinking. She felt her limbs loosen.
“Do you really think so?” she was fishing, hoping. Her free arm came loose from her chest.
“Of course! Are you kidding? You’re a knockout.”
Her fingers moved swiftly to the inside of Cameron’s thigh, and her lips reached up to the skin below his ear.
Then everything happened in quick succession: Cameron was on his feet, and a split second later Liberty had appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, you,” she said and then, surprised, “Laila!”
“Hey, Lib.” Laila sipped her remaining wine to hide whatever her face might otherwise reveal.
“You found my very favorite spot in the house. My reading nook! I used to hole up here for hours when I was a teenager.” Liberty was babbling strangely, acting as though she had been caught out in something rather than Laila.
“It seems perfect for that. I was just getting a moment by myself. It’s been quite a night.”
The situation suddenly became clear to all of them: Laila had been sitting alone, interrupted by Cameron, who’d come to meet Liberty. Why? The two spent half of their time together, despite claiming that they were just friends. Perhaps tonight had been the moment for some sort of declaration. Good, Laila thought, at the idea that she’d forestalled it.
“Shall we go back to the party, then?” Laila asked. “I ought to find Tom. Though I’m sure he’s more concerned with where his new best friend, Cameron, has gone.” Laila knew that Tom had been scrawny and nerdy as a teenager, and she imagined that tonight was his chance to feel equal to the popular jock who’d tormented him in prep school. Pulitzer or no, Laila thought, Tom would never be Cameron’s equal. He wasn’t born for it.
“That’s a solid man you’ve got there,” Cameron said, again the brotherly hand clapped on her shoulder. “I like him.”
“Tom is my favorite client,” Liberty said, “but don’t tell any of the others I said that.”
Their cheerful bantering was a thin covering. Did they think they were fooling her? Laila wondered.
That night in bed, on sheets with a thread count so high they seemed to melt beneath Laila’s skin, Tom reached for her as soon as the lights were off—always with the lights off, for Tom—and she batted his hand away. “Not here,” she said harshly, “it’s my family’s house.”
The next morning, Reece was awake before anyone else had emerged from their beds; Rocket bound out of the room behind her, ready to take on the day as ever. She made coffee—she’d stayed at the Tuxedo Park house dozens of times and knew where everything was—and installed herself at the granite countertop with her sketchbook full of tear sheets and notes. She lost track of time as she worked steadily for over an hour. Morning was her favorite time of day; it belonged to her in a way the rest of the day did not. She knew that she could technically quit her job and do only this. All she had to do was tell her parents about her and Cece’s plan for the line. But she feared their overbearing enthusiasm. Her mom would start calling every person she knew with influence in fashion, and her father would start buying things—it didn’t matter what, the latest design software, a plush workspace—and she would have all the time in the world to launch the line. And none of it would belong to her anymore. This was not a thing she could express to anyone other than Liberty—well-meaning, meddlesome, rich parents were the most privileged problem a person could have, but they were still a problem.
“What are you working on?” Leo asked as he came into the kitchen, stretching his arms over his head so that a flash of his taught stomach was revealed for a too-brief moment. On impulse Reece shut her notebook. Rocket got up from his dog bed and did an excited lap around Leo’s feet. Leo knelt down to scratch his ears, and the dog let out a comic groan of ecstasy.
“Oh, just some ideas for
work. My mind is always buzzing in the morning.”
“Mine too,” he said. “I thought I’d make some headway on the book. I promised my agent I’d get him some pages by the end of the long weekend.”
Ah yes, the book, Reece thought. Leo and his agent had originally sold it as The Man About Town’s Guide to New York, and it was meant to be a collection of his existing columns fleshed out with some context and some additional lifestyle tips, whatever that meant. The reason the book had sold, Reece imagined, was the fantasy that being Leo Lawrence was something one could learn. But as the project carried on—or stalled out, more accurately—Leo began to entertain delusions that it could be something more substantive. He’d begun to talk about Jack Kerouac, Tom Wolfe, and Charles Bukowski. What these literary titans had to do with Leo’s admittedly spot-on recommendations for where to buy suits (Duncan Quinn) and how to approach a woman who was out of your league (have your friend show interest in her friend, be polite but a little standoffish, and for God’s sake, you fool, don’t even think about negging her)—well, that was anyone’s guess. But this moving target of a subject matter kept him from having to do any of the work.
“So that’s why you’re up,” Reece said. “I confess, I’m surprised to see you awake.”
“Oh, Reece,” he said, sliding into the stool next to her, his elbow on the counter and his chin on his hand, “there is so much about me that would surprise you.”
They had always done this, since Leo was a teenager mooning after her. Reece knew two things: that she’d never actually date Leo and that she would be sad the day he fell in love with someone else.
“And how is the book coming along?”
“Oh, I have a fantastic new idea for it,” he said, “I want to go deeper into my philosophies about life, you know? Not just rehash my columns. I am thinking of calling the new iteration Manifesto of a Modern Gentleman. What do you think?”
“Catchy title,” she said with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. Although she thought white men might, at the moment, rather want to avoid using the word manifesto.
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